


The Lone Cinder Guard

by The_North_Star



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Eddy this is for youuuuu, F/M, Fluff, a gift for a friend but he's not on here sooooo, and now it's finished, but anyways, fairytale AU, fucking yesssssss, i am inquisitua trash, i am so proud of myself for trucking through, i have worked for so fucking long on this, inquisitua - Freeform, loosely based on Cinderella
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 01:23:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9469238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_North_Star/pseuds/The_North_Star
Summary: A little tale from a fairytale land far far away, where a man who has almost nothing wins the heart of a woman with almost everything. Loosely based off of the tale of Cinderella.  (Inquisitua; mention of murder and some other unsavory things that fairytale executioners do, but safe for children I promise.  Has many 'complicated' words, but kids are smart, so....)  (ALSO I EDITED EVERYTHING SO IT LOOKS MUCH BETTER AND IS MORE PLEASING TO THE EYE SO PLEASE READ, THANK YOU)





	1. The Cinder Guard

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Years, everyone!
> 
> This project was a long time coming, inspired by a Fairytale AU for Star Wars: Rebels I found on tumblr. I'll post the link here: http://venrael.tumblr.com/post/147053857833/fairy-taleau
> 
> But I'm so excited because originally, this was supposed to be a gift for a friend. But things in my life kept happening, including getting laid off and being unemployed again. :(
> 
> So, I've been using my free time (that wasn't to apply for jobs and such) to finish this, and at long, LONG last I'm done!
> 
> I knew I couldn't adapt the characters exactly to the classic Cinderella tale, but I knew that when I started writing this, I wanted to make the Cinderella character a male.  
> Since Cinderella is the story of an abuse victim getting the happy ending she deserves, I wanted to give a male character this story as well. 
> 
> Men can and are abuse victims also, and they deserve to know love and happiness are theirs as well. 
> 
> It's a refreshing take (i hope) on a tried-and-true story that's been part of human history for as long as we've been recording history.
> 
> Quantum Longe is the name of the fictional continent this story takes place in, which roughly translates to 'Far Away' in Latin. Knowing what we call the galaxy Star Wars takes place in, well.... :)
> 
> If you love this story but are shy/have anxiety/may have already left a comment, leave a comment saying 'Extra Kudos', and I will understand and appreciate it so so much, with very little effort on your part. 
> 
> And now, onward to the story I wrote in the franchise I don't own!

In a small village named Lothal, in the kingdom of the Outer Rim, our story begins.

The faerie are considered an old myth, particularly their branch of fae that had powers beyond understanding but deep in the history.

The Jedi, they called themselves. In the Outer Rim they were notorious, with humans claiming to see them, swathed in robes and wielding blades of fire, leaping from tower to tower and moving things without touching them.

Many other that did not identify as Jedi (at least, not anymore), glamoured themselves, and lived amongst humans.

One such fae was the nameless cinder guard.

A former guardian of the Jedi fae, until a group of vile humans claimed the continent of Quantum Longe and nearly murdered them all.

He survived, but the price was steep. Lose his life, or earn it by teaching other fae to kill, to hunt other fae, and to blindly serve the Emperor and his Empire.

It was obvious he was fae. His grey skin and sharp teeth and yellow eyes were not human. He could glamour himself to look human, but what was the use to conceal himself to them?

They called him the Grand Inquisitor, the greatest of their living weapons.

A once proud and powerful fae, reduced to a tool at the might of humans.

So he hated them. Learned to hate them all. Even that one Jedi, who glamoured himself to look like a human. Who had a Halfling padawan.

A Halfling. That wretched child. Someone that was neither completely human, nor completely fae. An outcast, most likely the result of a forced union between a fae and a human.

He could teach that boy. Much better than his untrained Master.

Instead the Empire sends him to some small backwater village in the Outer Rim kingdom. Apparently, the halfling boy comes from this little town.

There isn’t much here. Vast fields of grain and spiraling hills that break the monotony of golden-brown. Clear blue skies. Smaller populations of houses dot the sparse cities between the fields and along the coasts of glass-green lakes and rivers.

There used to be fae here. He senses magic in the earth, in the clean air, in the little loth-cats that run in the wheat.  
  
Deep underground, where the spiraling hills are not able to be climbed, there is magic. The Force, many of the faerie call it. Light and Dark coexist.

But when the Empire conquered this village, they began stripping the land and building their cities. Metal and duracrete appeared like disease, and almost all traces of faerie are gone.

He is sent to find those traces and hand them over to humans, and to destroy them should they be unfit for the expansion of the Empire.  
  
With him goes two other humans.

The first one is Kallus, a leader of a Security guild of Imperial Knights sent to check up on Lothal.  
He is cunning and intelligent, cruel and persistent. Admirable traits…for a human.

The second one is Rudor, a Baron from the larger and more elegant city of Naboo. A soldier per expectation of noble ranking males from his village, he isn’t as sly as Kallus, and nowhere near bearing the fighting prowess of the Imperial agent, but certainly matching in mindset, and somewhat in cruelty.

And their overseer…

A being that fulfilled, rejected, and transcended humanity all at once. One that struck fear in other humans, despite being fully human himself.  
Silver-haired, silver tongued, curt and ruthless. His name is enough to make even some faerie plead for mercy.

Grand Moff Wilheim Tarkin.

The Grand Inquisitor would not allow himself to be cowed by such a weak, wrinkled sack of a human. To obey, yes, but never to allow this fleshbag to completely rob him of his dignity and magic.

Thankfully, the Grand Moff does not accompany him to his trip to the breadbasket village. Kallus and Rudor have already gone to Lothal.

As expected, they greet him with stoic expressions when he steps from his chariot. Such is expected of servants to the Empire.

They bring him through to the village Capitol, to show him the inn where he, and the other visiting Imperials, will be situated when not hunting insurgents.  
The headquarters, the training facilities for newly inducted troops, the halls to for negotiations and the dungeons for interrogation.  
  
They leave him to inspect the stables and the chariots. Giant canine creatures are the preferred beast of burden in this village.

“Wolves.”

When he looks to see who speaks to him, a human woman stands near the stables. Fairly tall, her hair the same golden of the wheat fields in the distance.  
Her entire being seems to have been crafted from sunlight, from the warm brown of her skin to the earthy yellow of her calculating gaze.

The lines and shadows around her eyes. The slant of her jawline. The fine layer of dust on her face. The way she postures herself.  
  
She may wear milkmaid’s clothes, but all this indicates an older, wiser woman observing a stranger, and not some springly maiden naïve and curious of the world around her.

“Those are wolves. They’ve always been used by Lothali villagers to transport and carry things. One by itself is called a wolf. Chances are your chariot will be powered by one, maybe two of these wolves.”

Why does she speak to him…and with no hostility? He is one of the more fearsome-looking fae, and he makes no trouble to appear friendly. He normally isn’t.

“Regardless, I haven’t seen you in Lothal before. Many fae don’t pass through these parts unglamored. But the will of the Emperor before all, I suppose.”

In her hand is a small parcel wrapped in a deep red cloth, which she holds out over the iron fencing of the stables. He comes closer and hesitantly takes it from her.  
  
When he unwraps it, he opens the dark wood box and finds a simple yet supple pair of black leather gloves that appear to reach to his elbows.

A test? A trick?

“Why this? You are not aware, perhaps, that I am not like some fae who cannot touch metal without pain. “

The confused look on her face turns into a kind smile.

Kind.

“The gloves are a gift. It’s tradition to give some small trinket to soldiers that protect this village and the people. As a token of trust, I suppose. Also a protective charm, though I am not a superstitious person.  
And since you have the accent of someone from the Core Kingdom, I presume cleanliness is a high priority of yours.”

A corner of his mouth curls in response. “Cleanliness is appreciated, but not when it keeps me from fulfilling my duties. And how have you prepared this in time of my arrival in this village?”  
  
“Ah….I have my ways, Sir. Friends in high places, so to speak. Some of them are lucky to catch wind of who will come from the Core Kingdom into Lothal.  
There is a group of people that continue this tradition, and if they know beforehand, they prepare their gifts according to every individual.  
I just so happen to be part of this group, and I learned about you but found no one had prepared something for you. So I went ahead and took care of that little matter.”  
  
“…I see. It would be rude to waste such effort, my lady. I accept your….gift.”

She indicates that she’ll hold the box while he tries on the gloves. Carefully rolling them over his wide palms, then the rest of his arms, he clenches his hands.  
  
The fit of them feels…right. Like a second skin.  
  
“Where did you obtain these? These sort of gloves indicate master work, double line of stitches and all.”  
  
“A friend of mine. I call her Anfa. She makes these sort of things as a source of income. A family trade, she says, though things have changed since the Empire came into being.”  
  
He doesn’t need to ask how things have changed for that woman, though the milkmaid says no more. A localized trade and tradition eaten up by the monopolization of the Empire, and their able-bodied family members having few opportunities for a better life outside of Imperial influence.  
  
“But oh well. At least no one is homeless now, thanks to the Empire. You wouldn’t believe how many people had actually ‘lived’ in these particular stables until the Empire ordered housing to be built and gave everyone work.”  
  
Does this woman know all that came at a grave cost?  
  
He decides to say nothing on the matter.  
“Regardless, it is generous of you to obtain me these gloves. Again I thank you, my Lady. It may be a gift, but I will repay the favor somehow.”  
  
“That is even more generous of you, but I have everything I need for now. Although….perhaps you could return my kindness by telling me your name.”  
  
A name. If he had one, it had been a lifetime since he last heard of it. He never recalled having one, as the Guards of the Jedi had no names. To remind themselves of the Code and to have no attachment, not even to an identity.  
  
And in this day and age, an identity could be a very dangerous thing.  
  
“I have none.”  
  
A confused tilt of her head.  
  
“What? That’s silly. Surely they don’t just call you by…your title. Your position? Whatever that may be.”  
  
As if on cue, the baritone of Commander Kallus rings out. “Inquisitor! Orders have come from the Core Kingdom!”  
  
The man appears from behind the parked chariots and comes to the entrance of the stables, but is momentarily stopped by a growling wolf.  
  
“What? Away, beast, I am in no mood to deal with you.”  
  
The cinder guard comes up to nudge the wolf away from the gate, and he exits by climbing and vaulting himself over.  
  
His movement is smooth, and the woman’s awed reaction to his light-footed landing doesn’t escape him.  
  
“Greetings, Commander.”  
  
“Likewise, Inquisitor. Orders have come from the Core Kingdom, and these come straight from Lord Vader to you.”  
  
A heavy roll of papers is handed to him. Contained in a dark leather cylinder and bound with red straps.  
  
He hopes this set of orders from his Master does not include reporting personally back to Coruscant City for his inability to catch that false Jedi and his halfling Padawan in the dungeons of Stygeon.  
  
Such reports did not end painlessly.  
  
“General Tarkin will also be arriving in a few hours. He will debrief us on matters regarding this town, particularly the Emperor’s _Stella Mortem_ and the initial projects for it.”  
  
“Understood.”  
  
With that said and done, the fae begins to unfasten the leather cylinder.  
  
“….Say, Inquisitor, where did you get those?”  
  
A pause. “Elaborate, if you will.”  
  
“Those gloves? They don’t look military grade.”  
  
“These…are a gift, a token of the villagers and their alliance with us and the Empire. Apparently it is a tradition for them.”  
  
“And you merely accepted it? I’m wondering who is daft enough to give your emotionless self a gift, considering your tendency towards perfection. I do hope your kind knows how to express gratitude properly.”  
  
“Why, I’m the one daft enough.”  
  
Her. He hadn’t forgotten she was present, but until now she had been lurking just out of his line of sight.  
  
She approaches Kallus, her stride unusually rigid and elegant for a milkmaid.  
“It is a tradition of Lothal, Sir, a proud one passed down from generations of farmers that double as soldiers during times of war.”  
  
“Do Lothali commonly give gifts to faeries, particularly the likes of him?”  
  
Her nostrils flare. “We give these gifts to those sent to protect us. He is an Imperial servant and soldier, is he not?”  
  
“He’s a little more dangerous than the usual Imperial soldier, certainly not as predictable as humans”, the commander scoffs.  
“He only protects the village because of orders. Without orders, he is a threat.”  
  
“So would you, if you had no orders, Sir. A little disappointing, that a man that serves an Empire of peace and order would think and speak such things.”  
  
Any retort he had dies in his mouth.  
  
“But I am just one woman in this village, with my own opinions, see. And I am human, and I do as I please. As you do. Sir.”  
  
One eyebrow upon Kallus’ face twitches, but having lost the motivation to argue with her further, he turns back to him.  
  
“Remember, Inquisitor. Tarkin demands we are to meet him in the west wing of the Capitol Hall upon his arrival. If nothing happens during his travel he should be in Lothal by sundown. Be there.”  
  
With a curt nod to him and a bow to the milkmaid he leaves.  
  
“Such camaderie, Sir.”  
  
He doesn’t miss her dry tone. “Indeed, Miss.”  
  
She closes the box. “Sir, would you like to keep this?”  
  
A glance to her hands. Should he? Where would he store it? It could end up being clutter, which would be sort of a slap to the face of whoever made it.  
  
But he takes it from her, red cloth and all. “I will take it, if only to keep these gloves in impeccable condition when not in use.”  
  
She hands him the box with a pleased smile. “That is appreciated, Sir. And I would love to stay and chat, but I must be going. Work and all.”  
  
“Then go on, Miss, I shall not keep you. And, once more, thank you for your generosity.”  
  
She nods and starts to leave, but not before taking one last look at him.  
  
“If it means anything to you, Sir, you may call me Maketh. Good day to you.”  
  
She gestures farewell with a wave of her fingers. He bows deeply in response, and the last he sees of her is the back of her left hand covering her face as she disappears from sight.  
  
That somewhat pleasant exchange over, he returns to opening and reading his Master’s orders.  
  
Thank the Force, it isn’t a request to reprimand him personally. Simply to continue capturing possible Jedi survivors and other such faeries, and to keep detailed reports on encounters with Jedi Dume and his Lothali padawan Bridger.  
  
There are also orders to keep close watch over any activity involving the kyber crystal mining, since it was likely the two Jedi faeries would be assisting Rebels in disrupting the operations.

  
As of the rest of the day, he is to settle in this quaint inn located just a walk away from headquarters.  
  
Located right next to the fireplace of the inn is a room.  
  
A scant two-and-a-half meters long and wide, barely enough room to lie down. The ceiling is a sane three meters off the ground at least.  
When he slides open the dividing doors to it, he finds cinder and ash in a thick layer upon the floor. And upon the windowsills. Was this room an elaborate closet?  
  
He wrinkles his nose in distaste.  
  
Either these innkeepers are horrendously lazy or they were not informed he would be coming to the capitol.  
  
The latter.  
  
Definitely neglect from some fellow Imperials, neglect to mention one more of their number would be in Lothal.  
  
Or both. Both were possible.  
  
No time to complain.  
  
Using a few gusts of wind from the outer living room, he magicks the ash and cinders back into the fireplace.  
  
In the far right corner he sets his things.  
  
His sleeping mat is rolled out, one hand quickly smoothing down any folds.  
  
A wave of his fingers opens the windows.  
  
Before he heads back to his daily duties he looks over the room one more time. As orderly as can be.  
  
Back to work he goes.  
  
The rest of the day involves inspecting the Imperial Academy’s cadets and giving their Commanders specific criteria to help him find fae halflings.  
  
Sundown eventually arrives.  
  
All authorities among the Imperial staff stand at attention as a woman he’s never seen before welcomes Grand Moff Tarkin to Lothal.  
  
“Governor Pryce. Good to see someone competent in this decrepit village.”  
  
Ah, Tarkin. Utter soulless bastard.  
  
“Someone has to be, General. I’d have Minister Tua come greet you, but at the moment I’ve got her busy planning some ‘grand ball’, so we could focus on the important things.”  
  
“Tonight?”  
  
“Tomorrow night. All Imperial personel that won’t be joining us in the base chambers have been invited to go. She insists upon it. At least the girl does as she’s told…”  
  
He watches them leave, imagining Tarkin exploding to ash in some wild explosion.  
  
A ball? He knows what those are.  
  
Extravagant parties where people would dance with no grace and wear ridiculous outfits and become drunken fools. Absolutely _divine_.  
  
But almost all Imperial parties had the music of Twi’lek and Togruta fae.  
He is particularly fond of the strings of _bi-vu’iu_ , delicate harps meant to sit on the hip and curl up to the horns atop a Togruta’s head.  
  
And dancing. He always wanted to dance with someone, to show off his agility and skill.  
  
Hmmph. Such trivial, useless things to ponder.  
  
For tonight, he is forgoing proper sleep to sweep the village for any trace of Rebels and possibly a lead to the whereabouts of the two ‘Jedi’.  
  
He never did sleep ‘properly’, for insomnia had been his oldest friend since he was a child. Meditation and the state of subconscious that followed it was usually the closest he’d ever come to being fully rested.  
  
But sometimes the Force was kind and allowed him to sleep. And he remembered each and every dream. They came rarely, and good dreams even more so.  
  
Night bled into day, and he decides to spend the early part of the morning trying to compensate for his lack of rest.  
  
And he succeeds. When he breaks out of meditation, it is three hours before noon.  
  
Where has everyone in the inn gone to?  
  
One of the innkeepers inform him that all the Imperial staff staying in the inn had gone to obtain formal garments for the masquerade ball.  
  
Of course.  
  
He has no time, as usual. Today would be a full day, tracking Force-sensitive fae and leads upon the Rebel group as usual.  
As well as visiting the Academy, after someone referred to as Commander Aresko found three possible candidates in the Academy that could be Force-sensitive Halflings.  
  
A quick cleansing and a change of uniform are first in order.  
  
For he is not of the unwashed lot of Imperial agents incapable of prioritizing efficiency and hygiene equally.  
  
His list of responsibilities grow when he finds a parchment ordering him to quickly tend to the wolves on everyone’s chariots before heading out.  
  
“What?! Is that not a chore of a stablehand, and not for the most skilled of Emperor Palpatine’s executioners? Fools.”  
  
Yet he gnashes his teeth and tends to them anyway. Unlike their wretched humans, the regal canids are blameless and hardworking and, ergo, deserving of care.  
  
One of the wolves, a curious amber brown she-wolf, tries to give him a piece of meat when he feeds her and her companion. Her eyes are yellow and shining and she reminds him of Maketh.  
  
He refuses with an affectionate rub along her snout.  
  
The task wastes an hour and a half of his day, and as he pets the wolves of his chariot before mounting it, he curses them all in his native tongue.  
  
He could curse them physically, but the last time he had done such a thing, the consequence was…highly unpleasant.  
  
To the Academy he goes.  
  
When Aresko describes one of the students to him, a boy named Dev Morgan, he realizes that the boy is actually Ezra Bridger, the Halfling padawan he had been hunting for weeks.  
  
Angry that Bridger and another student got away, he redirects his energy towards interrogating a student named Zare Leonis, who had apparently befriended the two runaways by claiming to be a Halfling.  
  
Task completed, he takes the boy’s lead of inspecting a place in a section of the town called Tarkinroad.  
  
Destitute and gloomy. Houses held together with squares of tin and shaky beams. Full of humans spiritually exhausted and worn down to the bone.  
  
A place of ruin and people barely surviving. A place fit for Tarkin’s blasted name.  
  
There is an underground cellar located in a field near the road. He opens it and, going into it, finds nothing but barrels, furniture, parchment.  
  
And the insignia of Rebels painted everywhere.  
  
The wretched Bridger boy gave Leonis false information. Again he is left with nothing for his trouble.  
  
At least there were some remnants of the rebels that remained. He records the coordinates of the cellar and heads back to the headquarters.  
The ride back is long, almost halfway across the large town, and when he enters the inn, he finds the Imperial staff preparing themselves for the ball.  
  
Kallus is dressed in a formal white version of the usual Imperial uniform, and the Inquisitor finds him carefully combing his beard.  
Rudor wears a dark grey coat and red lapels underneath, and he is found folding his trousers into his boots.  
  
“Ah, there you are, Inquisitor. Will you be joining us tonight?”  
  
Looking down, he realizes with a pang of irritation that even if he wanted to go with them tonight, he had no fine clothes like theirs. He hadn’t been able to, most of his days relegated to Rebel hunting and sometimes murder.  
  
His irritation is fanned into full-fledged anger when he catches the smug expressions upon the two mens’ faces.  
  
Conspiracy! It had been the plan all along, to have him work almost endlessly, with no time or money to obtain the right wardrobe. Then he’d have to choose between showing up in a regular uniform and look like a fool, or….  
  
“No, gentlemen. I have other matters to attend to.”  
  
“Like cleaning up the wolf crap”, Rudor jokes, stifling a laugh, and the cinder guard swallows the temptation to strangle him.  
  
Kallus is smarter than that, blocking the Baron with his form.  
  
“Valen, do save the vulgar jokes for the Taskmasters, hmm?”  
  
He reaches out a hand to ‘console’ him with firm patting to his shoulder.  
  
“Now, now, don’t listen to him, Inquisitor. You may not miss much. It might not even be your cup of tea, so to speak. It’s a celebration, one that involves small talk about pointless things and strangers with no skills asking you to dance.”  
  
With no response aside from a stare he continues.  
  
“To say nothing of the drunkards that will take advantage of the copious amounts of wine, and the spoiled counts and nobles and whatnot---but do not worry! We’ll tell you all of the interesting gossip tomorrow, or even tonight, if we can stay awake…”  
  
The commander gives him one more pat. Straightens the badge upon his left breast before turning and nodding to Rudor.  
  
Both men leave in the stream of people exiting the quarters, excited chatter and the groan of chariots being boarded filling the air.  
  
“Enjoy your night, Inquisitor!”, he hears as the wolves drag them all to the Capitol Hall.  
  
It doesn’t matter who the remark comes from. As he watches the chariots roll down the street he wishes to join them. If only as an equal. As he deserves.  
  
And then the last chariot is gone.  
  
“Wishes are for fools.”  
  
Folding his hands behind his back, he walks to his chariot.  
  
Jumps up and on the roof.  
  
Watches as the last of the daylight finally fades into an inky blue sky and iridescent stars.  
  
Too distracted to even sense a pale blue-green mist forming around his chariot. For the back of his mind repeats the phrase until it nearly forms the feeling of a blade in his chest.  
  
_I wish to be there. I wish to be there. I wish to be there._


	2. The Charming Stranger

  
He knows they mock him for being unable to attend the celebration.

So he sits on the top of his chariot, watching the bright lights and imagining the faint sounds of music and merriment.

Was he not a faithful and hardworking servant of the Empire? He was practically a slave. And yet he had not been invited to an Imperial ball as a guest.  
There would be faeries at the ball, but most likely as servers and janitors and entertainment.  
  
Well, it wasn’t as if he liked parties to begin with. Or even socializing. But to just….be in an environment that isn’t the Emperor’s castle, or an interrogation chamber, or some armory, or even at a round table of generals and commanders.  
  
He certainly would like a change of scenery from the lonely confines of his chariot.

“It isn’t wrong to want to go, you know.”

He almost flinches at the sound, for it came from right next to him.

Sitting next to him is a Togruta fae. A very powerful one.  
  
A crown made of large animal teeth sits upon her blue-and-white headscarf. The scarf ends in two bundles, one which drapes over her shoulder. Her clothing is dark grey and dusty violet, but underneath her robes he spots the familiar gleam of armor. And two Jedi swords.

Her face is a reddish-brown dotted with white tattoos, and flanking her broad nose sit two lake-blue eyes.

“A…Jedi?”

Cinnabar-red lips smile in an almost sad manner. “Not…..quite.”

“Very few faerie can teleport, and all of them are Jedi.”  
  
“Hmm. I am not here to display my abilities or talk about my past. I am here to help you. Why don’t you go to the ball? You deserve to go as much as those men. Especially Tarkin.” She speaks the name with disdain as she pats his shoulder.

“I have no fine clothes to wear, my Lady”, he replies. That is partially the truth.

She looks incredulous. “Is that all? Why didn’t you say so?”  
  
She leaps from the chariot and beckons for him to join her. When he does, she circles him slowly. Under her calculating gaze he feels unusually vulnerable.

“Hmmm…it’s an Imperial ball, but you’re not vying for attention. Something completely different, though. A different color? I definitely will utilize a hood and mask. You know, to hide your identity. Plus, it’s a masquerade ball, so you won’t stand out so much…Ah!”

A flurry of white light from her hands surrounds him as she chuckles.  
  
“Hope you’re not claustrophobic!”

The somber gray and black of his working uniform disappear to a striking off-white and golden scheme.

The faerie woman gives him a fine coat the color of new parchment.

A high-collared shirt underneath with golden trim.

A golden obi tied at his waist.

Dove grey, billowing trousers tucked into study, tall brown leather boots.  
  
Ivory white dapples then covers his gloves gifted to him by Maketh.

The coat has a spacious hood that sits nicely at his shoulders, and upon his face…..he removes the mask on his face to see it.

A stark white face with only eyes carved into it. A branching golden pattern right down the middle. It isn’t exact, but it looks like the mask of the Jedi Temple Guards.

He tries to conceal his surprise, but she’s faster.

“I didn’t know at first, but I suspected. A former Sentinel. You deserve to go to that ball, more than any of them there.”

How old is she? What does she know of the Jedi? With a gentleness usually hidden, he slips the mask over his face.  
  
“Oh, and don’t forget to glamour your face, at least. We wouldn’t want anyone knowing who you really are should your mask somehow fall off, now would we?  
  
A curt nod. “There is still the issue of transportation, Lady Fae.”

“What? Your chariot has a broken wheel?”

“My chariot is recognizable. Incredibly so.”

“Is it now? Why not just ride one of these wolves? In fact….”

She uses her magic to unlatch one of the wolves that pull his chariot. When she beckons, the grey creature obediently trots over to her.

With a snap of her fingers, the wolf grows from a long and lean thing into a fearsome, powerful beast, black edging the wolf’s fur. Another snap, and a dark red saddle slips onto it.

“There? See? Out of excuses. All you have to do is get on, ride to the ball, and enjoy yourself. You’re welcome.”

“Not yet.” The cinder guard is no fool. Fae do not help others without some sort of condition, not even other faeries. Such is their nature.

She is no fool either.  
“Ah, you’re still—hehe. No strings, nothing is demanded from you in exchange.   
Only this: what I give you will last until midnight, until the first second of the next day. When my magic wears off, you must come back to headquarters before they realize who you are.”

Is that all? How….paltry. But he detects no malevolence from her, so he doesn’t say anything, except a deep bow and thank you to the Lady Fae.

In response, she launches him into the saddle and tells the wolf to head to the great Hall of Capitol City. He hangs tightly to the reins as the wolf runs faster than any chariot he ever handled.

“Have fun!”, he hears behind him.

White spires and towers gleam on the horizon as he quickly approaches the Capitol, and he decides to take a detour to ensure he can properly hide the wolf while inside the ballroom.

There. A small grove of meiloorun trees on the right side of the building.  
  
He stops there. Leashes the wolf to the base of the largest tree.

“Hush now. I will back before midnight. Do behave, and I’ll ensure a treat for you.” A sleeping spell from his lips enchants the creature into a rumbling slumber, and he slips his mask on and heads for the ball.

The cinder guard flashes his Imperial logo and seal to the men watching the entrance.

“Identification”, one of them demands in a muffled voice.

“Is the Imperial seal not recent and acceptable? My purpose here is Confidential, and my identity is none of your concern. Unless you wish to confirm with Governor Pryce yourself. Or, perhaps, Grand Moff Tarkin…”

Some of the guards recognize Pryce, her ruthlessness and diligence no doubt common knowledge in her village. But all of them freeze, fear flickering in their eyes, at the mention of Tarkin’s name.

He wants to chuckle. Too easy.

“Now, I’m not implying you to simply allow me into the ballroom, but I have a matter to discuss with Governor Pryce, as well as Moff Tarkin. I don’t want to keep them waiting, you know…”

There are some small conflicts among the guards. But they allow him into the ballroom, one of them pointing out Pryce talking with a group of dignitaries. One of them quickly mentions that Tarkin is a guest of this ball, but in another chamber.

Ah, good. The cinder guard steers clear of that direction, passing a Twi’lek server with a laden tray.

All the non-humans in the vicinity are labour and performers at this ball, just as he suspected. If there are any fae amongst the guests, the masks make it difficult to tell.  
  
At least none of the women are in chains.

The ballroom is larger than he expected, because the dining area and lounges lead to three staircases going down.  
When he walks closer to inspect, the three staircases join into one large staircase.

The partygoers dress in either really light or really dark colors. Some of them wear casual uniforms or coats in dreary greys and dark greens.  
Others wear stark white robes and coats, or expensive dresses the same color as his own garments.

The color comes from the masks they wear. Dizzying golden and red against glimmering blue and green. Many of them wear simple yet decorative masks that conceal their face shape and noses.

Some have more ostentatious designs, feathers and glittering buttons and wire structures that served more as hats than actual masks. One such mask has fur lining.   
  
He observes. Those are dignitaries, most likely, as well as other rich nobles and businessmen.

In the middle of the floor, at the bottom of the stairs, people dance to the music of Togruta and Twi’lek musicians.

He has learned to dance, but his last dance partner was a lifetime ago. A Pau’an like himself, and most likely dead and gone. He decides to go down to the floor regardless.

If only to avoid any familiar faces. Nevermind that they were all covered. He really didn’t want to run into Kallus or Rudor. Or, if the guards were correct, and the Grand Moff really is here—

“Why, greetings to you, sir.”

That voice. Under the false Corellian accent, there is a familiar warble that reminds him of grain fields and the earthy sweetness of meiloorun skins.

He cranes his head.

A woman, her flaxen hair curled and pinned up with pearl combs. As she strolls in his direction, her dark blue gown trails behind her. The ivory sash keeping the gown on her waist is draped over her shoulders.

She extends a white-gloved hand, palm down, to him. “Welcome to the village of Lothal. As Acting Governor, I like to try to greet all guests at events such as this.”

He recognizes the golden eyes shining behind the ivory half-face mask. Maketh.

She was—is—Minister of this village. What sort of politician dresses in milkmaid’s petticoats and pretends to be part of her populace?

He quickly remembers he is not in a wolf’s stable but in a ballroom, and he gently takes the hand still held out to him. Lifts his mask slightly and presses the kindest kiss he can muster to her lithe fingers.

“It is a pleasure to meet a minister entrusted with a governor’s work. And it is a pleasure to be here.”

He lets go. Secures his mask on his face. She quickly tucks her hand away.

“R-right”, she replies as her face flushes a deep apricot. “I am glad to hear of that. Now…”

She is stopped by the sound of the musicians playing a new song. Slower. Sweeter. The wind instruments change octaves. The chandeliers above dim. A harp lilts. Excited whispers.

“Wait, another dance?? I’ve already danced with every dignitary and soldier. Well, almost all of them.”

The cinder guard is about to retreat back to the walls so she can have some space, but her eyes are swifter.

“Oh! Sir! How could I be so rude? This may sound silly, and I know we just met, but…”

She holds out her hand to him again, with her palm up this time. A submissive gesture, unusual for politicians. An offering.

“….would you like to dance?”

How does he respond? This sort of situation is so alien to him it’s almost laughable. He’d even chuckle if not for the sincere woman before him.

Her hand still hovers. Palm up. Fingers relaxed.

A request. Not a command. He doesn’t have to entertain her.

But really, is he so pathetic he won’t dance with someone that asked so politely?

“I would gladly dance with you, Minister.”

Her smile reaches her gaze, crinkling the skin at the outer corners of her eyes. The music begins to swell as she leads him to the dance floor.

“Have you ever danced, sir?”

He keeps his focus on her, acutely aware of staring from other party goers. “Not for a long time, Minister. Do forgive me if I trod on your toes.”

“Only one way to find out.”

They stop, and he pivots on his heel so they face one another.

Her right hand plants upon his shoulder. Confident.

His right rests on her waist. Hesitant.

Their left hands clasp in the air. Warm.

He steps back, guiding her with him.

And they dance.

She’s tall for a human, and he is a full head taller than her. But other than the occasional glance to ensure they don’t crash into others, she keeps her eyes on him.

“Have I seen you before, somewhere? Perhaps not in Lothal, but…somewhere? I can feel it…I know you somehow…..”

Tailored suits and dark gowns fade to his peripherals. He should be paying attention, but he is more interested in analyzing her. And keeping his true identity from her.

“No, Minister. Surely not. Otherwise I would have greeted you the moment I saw you.”

His voice. His accursed accent. He spins her, watching her blue skirts twirl like water. Either she’s not very bright, or she’s toying with him. Which would be worse? He doesn’t want to find out.

“The mountains in the city of Naboo! There was a gathering of leaders there. Not for a ball like this, more work than fun. But surely you’ve been there…”

The cinder guard takes the opportunity to dip her. But certainly not with the help of some magic to keep her from slipping, no.   
  
“I have only heard of them, Minister, but never did go there. I have never seen them.”

“No?” He carries her back in standing position, and she breathlessly continues.  
  
“You should, sir. It would be unfortunate if you never did go, or even see them, and they truly are lovely.”  
  
“Lovely”, he repeats, allowing the letters to flow upon his honey-sweet voice. The peachy blush returns under her half-mask.  
  
“I am not the opulent sort. I don’t need the mountains of Naboo City if there is beauty right in front of me.”  
  
This careless statement sounds ridiculous and unpleasant to his ears, so he restrains the urge to stroke her cheek.  
  
Beauty right before him?! What has gotten into him? He has never spoken of such things, partially because what little majesty he had seen in his life was stripped by the Emperor. And this mere….woman…could not possibly compare to any of that. By the Force, he wanted to touch her face. As if he were her lover. Hah! That could never happen in the time they live in now.  
  
But she is charming. For a human.

She almost replies, but their lack of concentration causes them to bump into someone.

“Oh! Sir Kallus! I—we—are terribly sorry! Oh, Anfa, you too, my apologies…”

A minute rush of panic floods him as Kallus readjusts himself. His height and build make him stand out among both humans and fae. He prays the Commander is too distracted by Maketh’s prattling apologies to suspect him.

“Don’t worry”, the woman Maketh called Anfa assures, casually fixing the bodice of her deep purple dress.   
  
“Accidents happen, and you both were preoccupied. “ She chuckles when stressing “preoccupied”.   
“And why not? This is a time to enjoy the reward of our labor. Isn’t that right, Sir Kallus?”

Any discontent Kallus had felt disappears. “Indeed, Commander---er, Lady…Vienquarte. One night of relaxation and romance. To remind ourselves of our humanity and all we live and fight for…”

This Kallus is a vastly different Kallus than the one that led genocides and mercilessly dealt with insurgents. And though he seems the cosmopolitan, jubilant bachelor now, the way he says ‘humanity’…..

….it makes his skin itch and crawl.

Kallus, like too many other humans, believed humans to be the ultimate race to rule all living things.  
That faerie and the rest of creation are meant to bow to them, to blindly follow them and allow humans to destroy them.

“….well, in any case, my apologies to you, Minister. And to you as well. Sir.” Kallus bows to Maketh first, then to him. The cinder guard says nothing, merely a low nod in response.   
  
But he doesn’t miss the way the commander scrutinizes him with that narrowed gaze, brandy-gold eyes never breaking contact.

“Kallus, you go on. I just need a quick word with the Minister, then I’ll join you”, Anfa chirps. When he nods to her and walks out of earshot, she snaps her head in his direction, the beaded fringe of her mask clattering.

“Are you trying to avoid Kallus, stranger?”

Maketh sputters. “Anfa! What an accusation! That is no way to treat a guest, especially one as polite as this man.”

The woman holds her hand up. “I understand. I’ve been watching you during the entire talk, and I knew you were tense. I wouldn’t be too worried about him.”  
Anfa steps close enough to whisper, looking at a hallway coming from the right of the large staircases, and dismissively waving a hand in that direction  
  
“Don’t look at me. Look where I’m looking.  
I highly suggest if you want to keep yourself close to the party, but away from Kallus and other people you don’t want to socialize, you go up the staircases.  
Keep to your right.  
The hallway has windows looking outside, and if you keep your eyes low, you’ll see a smaller set of stairs leading to the balcony gardens.”  
  
Without looking back at him, she pats his shoulder.  
  
“The Minister would love the view from the gardens. She loves stargazing. Better than dancing with yet another dignitary that smells like an entire bottle of perfume. But that’s none of my business.”  
  
Wine-red lips pull back in a smirk. “Just like what you do with the Minister is none of my business.”  
  
Maketh chokes upon hearing that statement, looking ready to berate the shorter woman.  
But already Anfa is merrily gliding away.  
  
“Enjoy this night, you two!”  
  
Maketh sighs, arms dropping to her side.  
“Forgive me, sir. And her also. She’s a close friend and I appreciate her very much, but sometimes I’d like to shake her until she sees stars. She’s a troublemaker sometimes.”  
  
He holds his hand out to her. “I’d much rather deal with her than many of the people I work with. And for all of her rambunctiousness, I can agree with one statement of hers.”  
  
When she slips her hand into his, he gently leads her to the stairway, weaving them both among dancers too enthralled by the music.  
  
“If you choose to, I’d like a stroll with you. To see these balcony gardens for myself.”  
  
They ascend at a leisurely pace, and he briefly notes the train of her gown, striking dark blue against the cream-colored stone of the stairs.  
  
“Why, Sir, I’d love to! The balcony gardens are pretty but underappreciated. Even by myself sometimes, I’ll admit. Not that I don’t find nature wonderful, but work is a thief of time.”  
  
At the top of the stairs he spares another visual sweep of the room. Kallus is at floor level. Rudor is on the other side of the building. No sign of Pryce or Tarkin. Excellent.  
  
He does not respond to her, merely locating the way to the gardens. There are some partygoers in this hallway, but they’re of the more lecherous type. There is a man and a woman in a compromising embrace, and he instinctively pulls Maketh closer to him when a trio of people watch her with glinting eyes.  
  
But the short walk through the hallway proves worthwhile when they find the stairs leading to the gardens.  
  
“Oh….oh my…”  
  
The gardens feel alive, mostly free from pots and sprawling in the cracks and stone benches. There are two other tiers of garden below this level, but this one is apparently the only one accessible from the inside of the building.  
  
Demure, closed flowers with petals of white and light purple. Vines of dark green and magenta curl around the railings. A trellis near the small stairway boasts a tall plant with teardrop-shaped, pale blue buds and fruit.  
  
The cinder guard watches her reach out to a thorny cluster of some sort dotted with small flowers. She touches one of the blush-colored blossoms, and the flower immediately closes up.  
  
“A sleepy briar. I’ve never seen them in the Capitol, since they’re considered weeds and most people don’t like them. Because of the thorns.  
Moonlight spills over everything. Her sunlight coloring contrasts against everything else washed in silver. Which would logically explain why he couldn’t stop gazing in her direction.  
  
“But I grew up in a rural farm area, and these would grow along the roads, and as a child I liked to see how many of the blossoms I could ‘send to sleep’.”  
  
Her dress seems to have been spun from the night sky, and she uses the white sash as a cloak, protecting her from the slight chill.  
  
“The thorns look fearsome, but are only dangerous if you aren’t careful.”  
  
Gossamer. The sash is made from gossamer. One of the finest fabrics known to man and fae, but also one of the thinnest.  
The sheen of this one is thicker than other gossamer fabrics he’s seen, so though this sash cost money, it was nowhere near the lavish swan down used to make Core Kingdom gossamer.  
  
A less expensive down feather. From doves, perhaps. But this sash is still scroll-paper thin, so he utilizes a little more magic to keep her warm.  
  
“Reminds me of a man I met a few days ago. Charming and tall and his voice butter-smooth. He only looked mean and fearsome at first, and certainly can be that way to people who act so terribly to him. But he’s a smart man; certainly knows more than I do. And, at least from the way he acts to me, he can be…kind…”  
  
She looks back at him with slight embarrassment.  
“…but, oh! Goodness, listen to me. Prattling on about some other man I’ve met when I’m with someone so articulate and polite.”  
  
His face is calm but he knows who she speaks about. _Thump thump, thump thump_ , his heart beats in response. In rapid succession. She has found her way to the balcony and he joins her.  
  
“Nonsense. This man must have some sort of prominence, or importance, that he leaves such an impression on the Minister of the village of Lothal.”  
  
“Well, his fellow Imperials don’t treat him like he’s important, despite the fact he must be, or the Empire wouldn’t have sent him here. And that’s his only purpose here.  
And he’s not even here tonight to enjoy this ball. How unfair! Though, maybe he doesn’t like parties.”  
  
The cinder guard turns his face to her, noticing the gossamer is no longer around her shoulders. His warming spell is working.  
  
“He would not brave something like this to meet you again? Or he isn’t allowed to? The world is an unfair place, and I wouldn’t doubt some Imperials would want others to stay away from the merriment of privileges so richly deserved…”  
  
“I wouldn’t either, but I highly doubt other Imperials would use rank to keep lesser-ranked comrades from a ball. The Empire wouldn’t encourage such favoritism.”  
  
So she isn’t very bright after all. That, or she is the unfortunate leader being deceived by the people she helps. The cruelest of ironies.  
  
“The Empire is very…selective upon what it encourages. Better to be deceived than to be coerced, I suppose.”  
  
Her relaxed expression turns sour. “The Empire, nor the Empire’s servants, would be foolish enough to use force against people that can rise up and destroy them.  
  
“Why use brute force against a people when you can simply fool them into complacency from the very start?”  
  
Anger flashes, a gleaming knife in the gold of her eyes. “What exactly are you implying, Sir?!”  
  
No longer leaning on the balcony, her body is turned towards him, confrontational. But he remains as he is. He doesn’t want to fight her. He is tired of fighting people.  
  
Which is a rarity in itself.  
  
“What _do_ you think I imply, Minister?”  
  
“That _**I**_ am some sort of….some sort of tyrant! Or worse….an idiot who’d simply let some outside power waltz in and oversee my village because I am too lazy to take care of them.”  
  
A frustrated huff of air escapes her.  
  
“Except I had no power to do that either. That was the decision of Governor Arihnda Pryce. I don’t know what business she has with Grand Moff Tarkin or the Emperor, but…she handed Lothal to me, and I want my people to live, and to do well.  
So here I am, doing what I can to ensure Lothal becomes the gem we were meant to be.”  
  
Any indignation she had before is gone, replaced by a somber sort of fatigue. She looks as if she were his age.  
  
And then no more. It dawns on her, and she remembers where they are and who she is.  
  
She breathes deeply.  
  
Straightens her posture.  
  
Adjusts her mask.  
  
Drapes her sash around her arms again. Once more she composes herself into the dignified visage of Minister Maketh Tua, Acting Governor of Lothal.  
  
“But really, Sir, that is what this small-town Minister thinks. I’m sure you know so much more.”  
  
The sarcasm does not escape him. He expected a short-tempered altruist, a woman too compassionate and inexperienced to be Minister, much less Governor. But knowing and seeing are two different things, and he’s seen many leaders like her.  
  
And the Empire destroyed and devoured them all.  
  
He wants to be indifferent. She is just another human, and he’s killed many of her kind. She isn’t special, and there’s nothing she has that he wants. There are many like her.  
  
It isn’t hard to not care.  
  
“I know that you at least care for your people, nothing like the dignitaries in their ridiculous masks. Which already makes you an obstacle, if not an outright threat.”  
  
And yet he remains here.  
  
“Do not think you are the only one that sees potential in your town and your people. There are others that see it, and only to suit their own wants. And if _only_ you are in the way…you could only imagine what ends they’ll go to.”  
  
“I hardly think assassination is a stain the Empire wants on their image---“  
  
“----there are many that know this and do not care. They are sly, conniving, capable of concealing and destroying information…and people. I would much prefer those men keep their sights and daggers away from you.”  
  
Her knuckles brush his wrist. He had been staring out into the distance and he realizes very quickly how telling, how strange, that must have looked to her.  
  
If she had noticed, she says nothing about it.  
  
“But how rude of me, to speak to you in that abrasive manner…”  
  
Taking her hand that brushed his, he presses three apologetic kisses to the back of it.  
  
“…I don’t even know what came over me. I do apologize, Minister.”

“Apology accepted”, she blurts out, her hand darting to back to her person and absentmindedly fixing her impeccable dress.  
  
He chuckles, earning narrowed eyes and a crumple of her mouth to the right side of her face.  
  
“What?! What do you find so amusing, Sir?!”  
  
“Forgive me, Minister. I’ve never met someone so flustered by my mere presence.”  
  
“You are arrogant, Sir, as a Coruscanti tends to be.” Her words sound upset, but a sparkle, as if from candlelight, flickers in her eyes.  
  
A welcome change from the edge of anger just moments ago.  
  
“Puffed up, prideful…thinking you can just waltz in here and charm the local unweds off their feet with a deep voice and pretty replies. Why, I should demanding a year’s wages from you! It will take more than a mere apology to sooth this…offense.”  
  
Rosewater and drops of honey dance upon her words and, relieved, he is quick to respond in kind.  
“Well, Minister, do suggest a more _fitting_ offering that you demand of me.”  
  
She beckons to him as she flits upon the stone floor, one end of her gossamer rippling in the breeze.  
  
“Gold and silver I need not, for I have enough. Treasures and gems will only take up space in my home. I’ve never trusted myself to learn to ride a wolf. Oh! I know!”  
  
He watches her turn. His hands are patiently folded behind his back.  
  
“A dance. Ask me to dance with you.”  
  
Oh. This night continues to be a surprise.  
  
“Here? There is no music---”  
  
“---But you can keep a rhythm, yes?”, she interjects. And she is correct.  
  
“I have danced with you already---”  
  
“—Because I asked. Not you. Me. Now _you_ get to ask _me_. If you want to, that is.”  
  
Well, he is not one to argue with a sensible proposition.  
  
And he certainly _wants_ to.  
  
A slight pull on each sleeve straightens them, and he smoothes his hands down his garments to rid them of nonexistent wrinkles.  
  
_There is no emotion, there is peace_ , a proverb of the Jedi went. Ironic, considering the unpredictable, extremely emotional nature of faeries. He repeats the mantra to himself.  
  
_There is no emotion._  
  
“Minister…”  
  
_There is peace.  
_  
“…may I have this dance?”  
  
_There is no emotion._  
  
“I would be delighted to, Sir.”  
  
_There is peace._  
  
This time is different. Both his hands gently slip around her waist, and her arms run up and around his shoulders.  
  
He is a full head taller than her, but it still feels overwhelming intimate when her hands lace at the back of his neck.

“Comfortable, Sir?”  
  
He nods, obtusely aware of his breath trapped behind his mask. As he asked her, and not the other way around, she leads this time.  
  
This is no twirling show of skill as it had been in the ballroom, but almost like a moving embrace, slow and pleasant and warm and free.  
  
Free. This is what it feels like.  
  
No commands. No hunts. No battle. No Lords.  
  
Just a dark peaceful night. With splendid company.  
  
And his company has just laid her head into the crook of his neck.  
  
What?  
  
What in all of Quantum Longe and the Force is this?  
  
He isn’t her lover. He isn’t. Could never be.  
  
At least not after tonight. But tonight, he could be the closest thing to that.  
  
_She does not know who I am, anyway._  
  
Ignoring the screams of reason pelting in his mind, he slides his left hand along the curve of her back, bringing his arm around her shoulders.  
  
“Minister?”  
  
“Hmm?”. Her response is a blissful, almost drowsy murmur.  
  
“Is this…alright? My arm around your shoulders?”  
  
“…well, I didn’t say no, did I?”  
  
“You didn’t say yes, either. I am a…careful…sort of person.”  
  
She looks to the two slits where his eyes would be. Without breaking eye contact, she presses deeper into his chest.  
  
“Then, yes. Absolutely. You hold me for as long as you want me here with you.”  
  
He wants her close for the rest of his miserable life.  
  
But tonight will have to do. He gently lifts her over obstacles like thick roots and the occasional loose chunk of floor and sets her down as though her feet never left the cobblestone.  
  
Around and around they go in lazy circles. It must not be very long, yet he wants this night forever. If his powers could let him hold time in his hand, he’d never let this night turn into day.  
  
“Sir, have you been to a ball like this before?”  
  
“I have not, Minister. Do you mean a masquerade, or a ball in general?”  
  
He has been to a few Imperial events, yes. But not as a guest. And certainly not allowed to be merry and drink and dance.  
  
“Any sort of ball. You speak like a man who has never been to one. And you hold me like you never want to leave this one.”  
  
He glances towards her, her golden eyes set in her ivory mask like jewelry.  
  
“You are perceptive, Minister. I have never been to a ball like this, never mind meeting someone like you.”  
  
A chuckle suddenly spills from her.  
  
Their dance ends abruptly.  
  
She places some distance between them with a hand to his chest.  
  
“You must be teasing me. No, no, you have been with someone, danced with someone….wooed someone. There is no way you could not have. Why, it’s almost as if you were a fae…”  
  
She prattles on in jest, speaking of magic abilities and faerie tales she’s heard, but when the cinder guard doesn’t respond to any of it she stops.  
  
“…Are…are you….a faerie?”  
  
For the first time he senses an ember of trepidation within her. It is hardly a flicker, but it is enough to put a thorn into his side.  
  
All humans, regardless of whether they saw the fae as friend or foe, are afraid of the fae. Many, though not all, had abilities beyond human capacity, and the only humans that could gain such abilities naturally were Halflings. And such beings were to be feared.  
  
Humans are all the same, he thinks at first.  
  
“Suppose I was. Suppose I am. Would that change anything for you?”  
  
A quiver laces her voice as she answers. ““Wh--where---where did this even come from? I….it wouldn’t change for me. Well, that would depend. But….Sir, you haven’t answered my question…”  
  
“A simple yes or no will suffice, Minister.” Humiliation, hot and tasting of iron, starts to burn in his entire body.  
  
“Sir…please, Sir, don’t be angry. You must understand it isn’t that simple. I am a Minister. Not a Governor, not a real one, and certainly not a Queen, or even an Empress---”  
  
It’s taking considerable effort to keep his voice calm and unaccusatory. “And what does your title have to do with---”  
  
“---My word isn’t law, but merely to uphold it! Honestly, I’d like the fae to live peacefully in the city, if not in their own villages, but that isn’t my choice to make. I am simply an avenue for the Empire, merely there to ensure things are as they want it.”  
  
Her eyes are wide now, accompanying an intense and sudden pulse of fear.  
  
“Oh. Oh, Maker. Oh, Sir, oh please, I…..I shouldn’t have said that. Any of that. That would be heavily scrutinized by…..oh, Maker, why, WHY?!”  
  
Her hands are shaking, and she slips them under her eye-mask to press them against her face.  
  
She is now far from the dignified politician image presented to her people through the heralds harping the news in the city square.  
He is obtusely uncomfortable with her panicked murmuring, but he decides to lay a gentle hand to her elbow.  
  
Her hands clamp down on his wrist.  
  
“Sir, please, please don’t repeat to another soul what I’ve told you. I believe you wouldn’t regardless, but there are some that will make things very hard for me should they find out---“  
  
Without a scintilla of thought, two fingers lightly touch her lips.  
  
“Hush, Minister. Fae sympathizers are not a new discovery for me. It is a complicated matter, yes, but there are always humans who know how the faerie should be seen. How they ought to be treated. For I am like you…”  
  
And he leans in close, brushing past one side if her face, lifting his mask just enough to allow his mouth to whisper into her ear.  
  
“….I, too, am a sympathizer of the fae.”  
  
Their friend and protector…one of their own, he almost adds, but knows that is no longer true. He was, and is, a traitor and a disgrace.  
  
“Your secret is safe with me.”  
  
He fits the mask back into place and makes distance between them.  
  
“Thank you…Sir…”  
  
He motions to a nearby bench, to see if she’d like to sit down, but she refuses with a shake of her head.  
  
Instead, she gently lays a hand to the side of his face.  
  
“Oh, Sir, I really should’ve said this before, but you are one of the most splendid, most polite partners I’ve ever had the pleasure of dancing with.  
And your mask is really a beautiful mask. Gold and white, quite the combination of colors. I am willing to wager that the man beneath is even more lovely…”  
  
Oh dear.  
  
“…and I had asked you before if you had been to a masquerade ball, because there is this tradition of removing masks and revealing oneself at the stroke of midnight. So when the clock in the Capitol Square rings once---”  
  
**_BONG_**  
  
“---oh! Midnight! It’s already midnight, Sir---”  
  
Midnight. _No_.

No no no.

A quick glance at the arms wrapped around her waist. Already the Lady Fae’s magic wanes. He sees his dark clothing shimmering beneath the sleeves of his coat.

“Minister, forgive me, but I must be going. I have lingered here too long, and I must rest for tomorrow’s duties. I wish you a good night.”  
  
He reluctantly lets her go and she grasps his arm.  
  
“Wait, sir! Please. I don’t know who you are! Tonight was so lovely. At least give me that.”  
  
Lovely. She felt their time together was lovely. But the panic of the enchantment melting off is a storm cloud over his parade.  
  
“Minister, please listen when I say: it is better to forget my face. I am not who you think I am. But thank you for tonight. Forgive me.”  
  
And he runs, faster than he’s ever fled in his entire life.

“Wait! Sir!” Maketh calls out, but he’s already halfway back to the main stairway.  
  
People are attracted to the commotion. Whispers and gasps abound.  
  
But all of them are content to watch her vainly pursue this stranger.  
  
There! The main entrance! He uses what magic he can to make himself go faster, though no one has attempted to stop him. He’s outside and descending the stairs, peering around for the meiloorun orchard.  
  
Something clatters to the ground, and it seems like something that belongs to him, and he takes one last look over his shoulder.  
  
The mask!  
  
But in a few moments the mask will be useless to hiding himself, and he can’t go back. Can’t allow himself to be caught by anyone.  
  
Not even the charming Minister.  
  
He disappears into the orchard and snaps his fingers. The sleeping spell on the wolf wears off, and he mounts the beast and commands him to run.  
  
“Find him!”, he hears in the distance.  
  
He takes the detour back, hoping none of the Imperials lodging at his inn have been bored enough to come back.  
  
Or suspicious enough.  
  
The sounds of the few men sent after him fade into the forest. The Lady Fae’s magic runs off him like water, the fine clothing being blown off by the whipping wind.  
  
The inn! He’s coming up close.  
  
Suddenly, he is thrown from his seat on the wolf and send skidding onto the ground.  
When he picks himself out of the dirt and dusts himself off, he finds the lack of a red saddle and the wolf having returned to his normal size.  
  
Damn it all. At least they’re a small walk from his chariot and the inn.  
  
The unfortunate creature seems shaken, but follows the cinder guard back to his place on the chariot. The other wolf immediately senses them and growls.  
  
Oh. He forgot his human glamour. Does it matter? Probably not.  
  
A wave of his hand charms the hostile beast.  
  
“Hush. Your friend needs rest, and it would not be polite for you to interrupt him. Sleep now.”  
  
With that wolf down, he takes his steed and gently strokes his head. The wolf whimpers but otherwise lays down into his kennel, and he is rewarded with a bowl of water and some smoked poultry magicked out of thin air.  
  
“Good boy, you’ve done me an immense favor tonight. I shall not forget it.”  
  
Leaving the wolf to enjoy the well-earned meal, he begins to head towards his quarters to take what little rest he can get.  
  
Tomorrow will be a test upon his soul.  



	3. The Beloved One

  
The morning comes, and despite the little bit of sleep he got, he finds himself on edge.  
  
“You missed an amazing night, Inquisitor. Pity you weren’t able to make it. The ballroom and the ball itself was great, had a dance with the Minister, and we had a nice chat about wine and liquor. It was all fantastic, especially the liquor. I’m still feeling it as a matter of fact…”  
  
He watches Rudor down a very strong cup of tea in one go.  
  
All Imperials are gathered outside, about to head for their individual jobs, gorging themselves on breakfast and caf, as well their various hangover ‘cures’.  
  
He has, thank the Force, washed last night’s evidence from him, having eaten breakfast in the peace of his room. A far better idea than cramming food into his mouth like this particular Taskmaster.  
  
“Speaking of the Minister…”, Kallus remarks as he comes into his line of sight, “….that little fiasco was the highlight of the night.”  
  
The cinder guard is a master at keeping a blank face. “Fiasco…?”  
  
“Some tall fellow, full face mask, decked out in white. No one knew who he was, not even the Minister. According to her he didn’t even tell her his name. They have some…alone time…and he can’t be bothered to even give a name? How distasteful. He runs out of the ballroom at around midnight, and she nearly trips over herself chasing after him. But he doesn’t stop. At all.”  
  
_He doesn’t wish to be caught, obviously._  
  
“I guess some men went to go find him but weren’t successful. He only left his mask behind. I feel just a tiny bit sorry for Minister Tua, running around the town trying to use only a mask to find him. Well, I don’t feel sorry, really, but she’ll get over it, I’m certain.”  
  
_One would hope. She would be better off that way._  
  
“But I’m curious as to what you think…Inquisitor. What do you think of this whole mess? Is the Minister wasting her time?”  
  
Kallus is more of a fool than he thought, if the blond man thinks he’s being sly. The Inquisitor can see right through him and plays accordingly.  
  
“Why would my opinion matter? I was not there. I have no idea to the identity of this mysterious man the Minister is fawning over. And none of it is of importance to me.”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know”, the commander mutters, eyeing the Inquisitor while he unsheathes his sword and inspects it.  
“I figured I’d ask. Since you most likely spent the better half of the night imagining yourself at this well-deserved ball.”  
  
The fae sheathes his blade again. “Nonsense. As I said last night, I had other matters to attend to. I had no proper garments, let alone a companion as some of the other Imperials had.”  
  
“…Right. You couldn’t have possibly been there last night. Unless you wouldn’t have minded waiting tables and filling whisky glasses? There were faeries, just as service. Not as guests. It really wouldn’t have been your kind of party.”  
  
The shallow, callous statements are meant to infuriate him. To expose him. Burying his frustration under a roll of his eyes, he walks out of the inn.  
  
“I mean, no fancy clothes, no one to dance with, would he even have a friend to talk….?”  
  
He wants to smirk.  
  
Last night he had each and every one of those. They may not have remained his, but he had them, and nothing any fool could tell him would change the fact that for one night, he tasted those fruits and they never even knew and never would.  
  
As they could never know, he decides to venture to the stables and check upon the wolves.  
  
Particularly the diligent steed that carried him to and from the ball.  
  
The said wolf appears to be in good spirits, and when he enters the stables the creature runs up to sniff him before affectionately licking his palm.  
  
His bare palm.  
  
Oh! Maketh’s gloves! In his haste to leave the inn he had forgotten to put them on. Although it truthfully wouldn’t have made a difference. He had placed them back in their original box after last night’s events.  
  
And it wasn’t as if he would see her anytime soon.  
  
“Inquisitor!”  
  
Maketh!  
  
How the Force continues to work in mysterious ways.  
  
“Grand Inquisitor! There you are!”  
  
What is she doing here?  
  
Thank goodness she’s alone. Yellow hair falls wildly over her shoulders, and her flushed cheeks and shortness of breath indicate she had been running.  
  
“I need to speak with you!”

One of the wolves in the stable runs to intercept her, but with his command of ‘no’, the creature allows her to enter.  
  
She nearly trips over her dark blue skirt, and the motion is enough for her to drop the bundle she carries. She reaches for it, but he’s faster, and he holds it out to her.  
  
“Let me ask you something, Inquisitor.”  
  
The look she gives him is one he cannot identify. Which unsettles him. But he simply tips his head in her direction.  
  
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”  
  
“That depends. If—-“  
  
“—I don’t speak of Imperial matters, Sir!” She wrenches the bundle from his hand and begins to unwrap it. “I’m talking personal matters. Nothing in regards to the Empire. You. I’m asking about you.”  
  
He turns away. “Then you will not receive an answer, as no one is privy to my personal life.”  
  
“So you do have a personal life? Family? A childhood? Goals and dreams?”  
  
He begins to walk away. “It does not matter. Even if I had such things, such trivial wants, you would never be able to fulfill any of them. You have no power to change my life; even I can’t escape the life I have now. You are human and I am fae.”  
  
He stops walking but doesn’t face her. “And besides, you are a mere servant of the Empire, as am I. Aside from our usefulness, you and I share nothing else. There is nothing between us. There never was, and there never will be.”  
  
“That's not what you said three nights ago.”  
  
Panic begins to seep into his entire being, even as he maintains his composure.       
   
“That is nothing like how you treated me at the ball, when you danced with me, when we walked and talked in the private gardens.”  
  
No. Oh, Force, no. Murder and interrogation are somehow easier than this. His mind screams at him.  
 _  
Run, fool!’_  
  
Yet he doesn’t want to run. He can’t.  
  
‘ _Please_ ’, he wants to beg of her. ‘ _For your sake as well as mine, please, forget the man that talked sweetly to you. Forget him. Just remember that's night, and that a good companion made your night wonderful. You and I, we will never be accepted. I cannot keep you safe if….if we…._ ’  
  
A crunch of rocks underfoot. She's right behind him. He turns.  
  
And he looks upon her shining eyes through two slits carved in shadow.  
  
A mask. The mask he dropped upon the stairs, as he fled from a ball he never should have attended.  
  
“It IS you”, she breathes, happiness blooming across her face.  
  
He recoils in response, as if the mask burned him. Perhaps it ought to. It would be better than the humiliation that burns in his gut, the fear of what she could do with this knowledge.

What someone else could do with this knowledge.  
  
“You cannot lie to me and tell me it wasn't you”, she says, firmness in her voice yet hurt in her eyes. “I know you were the one that danced with me.” When he tries to turn his face away, a hand, long-fingered and lacking a white glove, gently cups his cheek.  
  
“I know why you're acting like this. It's because you're afraid. Not of what they'll think, but what they'll do. And that someone who hates faeries could use me against you. Or use you to get something from me. And…I can't see the future, but….”  
  
Her thumb brushes gently along his nose as she shifts closer to him.  
  
“We don't need to tell anyone. It can be our secret. To protect us. I…I could never have a normal life anyway, what with being a Minister. Maybe even a Governor someday.”  
  
“Then they will find out.” He wants to move away, but her hand is an anchor.  
  
“You deserve better than struggling to…maintain these flimsy, fleeting feelings with someone that cannot provide for you or attend to your needs. You are far safer if you leave me.”  
  
“The Empire does not fight for you, or your kind, despite your loyalty and service to them. To us.  
So damn them if they won't let us have this. I will toil and fight and wait, wait until we can love openly without fear.  
  
But please. Please don't push me away. I will make it possible. As long as I can protect myself, I can protect you also.”  
  
He wants to hope. A part of his heart, wintery cold and bitter, has already warmed beneath the stone.  
  
No.  
  
NO.  
  
But he feels her hands take his, pressing chilled knuckles to her lips to warm them. He had forgotten his gloves, and the sensation of her caresses…  
  
Theirs. Only theirs. This strange, wonderful bond they formed belonged to only them.  
  
No Empire, no Lords, no one. Even if their lives were stripped from them and their bodies burned or buried, love was the one thing that could never be destroyed.  
  
He would know. The last words of many he killed were not words of hatred, but of love. For children and friends and peoples and spouses.  
  
Regret, last wishes, wills that would never be fulfilled.  
  
But love was a constant.  
  
A constant he never thought he would feel, even in his wildest dreams.  
  
Maketh. All sunlight and iron will and admiring glances. She seems like a dream.  
  
Arachnid fingers run along her jawline, and when she looks up to him he presses his forehead to hers.  
  
“I cannot promise anything, Inquisitor. Only that I will love you and protect you the best I can.¨  
  
A kiss to one corner of her apricot smile. ¨That is all I could ever ask of you, Minister.¨  
  
Laughter, brief and light, is her response. But she leaves little time for him to feel offended, winding her arms around his neck.  
  
The kiss he receives from her is both calming and invigorating, as a crystal lake is warmed by a rising sun.  
  
¨Maketh¨, she murmurs when her lips leave his.  
  
¨You may call me Maketh.  
  
The day passes like a westward wind. And the next day. And the day after that.  
And he carries out his duties, cleanly and efficiently as he always does.  
  
But in her quarters, in the privacy of the wolf stables, when he dons his usual dark uniform and she disguises herself in her petticoats and headscarf…  
Between duties and assignments, in fleeting moments where everyone is too preoccupied with Imperial matters and whatnot, he is overlooked.  
  
And he would much rather have it that way.  
  
No one to give them away. No one to know.  
  
Just those moments where he is more than a servant.  
  
And the Force is merciful in this regard, for not even the Lords, with their vulture eyes and empty hearts, see anything.  
  
Sometimes the Empire gives them such moments.  
  
Today is such a day, where he must escort her to some negotiation of a sort involving war machines being manufactured in Lothal.  
  
How droll.  
  
The carriage that accompanies him is one exclusively for the Acting Governor’s use, after some inside prodding that she should have her own vehicle.  
  
Prodding by him, of course.  
  
Coppery-gold inlay and designs of trees and Imperial insignia curling around the carriage. A deep blue casing all over the box-like structure. Windows with sliding screens and a partition to the driver’s ledge. Iron wheels he magicked when no one was looking.  
  
It didn’t take much magic to ‘convince’ Imperial workers to make one, and it is a little thing, but well-suited and designed with his lady love in mind.  
  
“Good morning, Minister Tua!”  
  
An officer is already at her residence when he arrives. She lives on a low hill about half an hour from the Capitol.  
  
He catches a quick glace of her, blue uniform and all. And an interesting hat, to top it off. It made her look smaller than she actually was.  
  
Only the Emperor, overpowered fool that he is, would force governors to wear such things.  
  
“Likewise to you, Sir Titus. What…is this lovely carriage doing here?”  
  
“It is your carriage, Minister.”  
  
“My ride? Who does it belong to?”  
  
“You, Minister. This carriage is for you.”  
  
He relishes her happy gasp in response.  
  
“Oh? Could it really be? Hail to the Emperor and his Empire, this is so kind!”  
  
“It wasn’t from His Majesty, at least not directly. Many Lothali villagers have been pushing for you to have your own vehicle, and an unidentified donor essentially made the trouble for blacksmiths to make this carriage for you.”  
  
“…an _unidentified donor_ , you say? I would wish to know who they are, if only to personally thank them…”  
  
A smirk pulls at his pale mouth.  
  
“Y-yes, Minister. Here, if I may---?”  
  
There is the sound of her stepping into the carriage and him closing the door after her, securing it shut with a firm slam.  
  
“Oh! Cushions! And a little alcove for refreshments. By the Maker, this is absolutely marvelous!”  
  
“That is splendid to hear, Minister. Then the ride to work should be a positively grand!”  
  
There is excited shuffling in the carriage and he almost wants to laugh.  
  
“Just one more thing, Minister Tua. We do, however, feel we must inform you that your coachman is, in fact, a fae.”  
  
Ah. He rolls his eyes as he brings his hood around his head and prepares to set out.

Some humans never change.  
  
“However, he has important business to attend to in the Capitol, so we hope this is merely a minor inconvenience for you?”  
  
“Hardly an inconvenience, Brom”, he hears her reply. “I am very grateful to have a carriage of my own. And a driver of my own, to boot. Why, the Empire has been very gracious to me.”  
  
“Then I shall not keep you, ma’am. Have a splendid day.” The blond officer comes around and gives him a curt nod.  
  
“Salutations, Inquisitor, Sir.”  
  
“Likewise, Sir Titus.”  
  
The small gasp he hears within the carriage is almost smothered by the grind of iron wheels and wolves’ paws in the gravel as he commands the beasts to pull the carriage and go.  
  
She doesn’t speak until they are in the privacy of the rolling wheat fields, far from the ears of other Imperials. There are a few workers out. All are too engrossed in their labor to see the partition in the carriage open.  
  
“Sir? Is that really you?”  
  
When he turns his face towards her, she reaches a hand out to him and he grasps it, craning his neck down and kissing the tip of each finger.  
  
“Good morning to you…Maketh.”  
  
The carriage has no internal light, yet he still sees her joyous look beneath her hat.  
“It is you! I am so glad.”  
  
He returns his eyes to the road but doesn’t let go of her hand.  
  
“As am I. And do forgive me, my dear, but I am unable to kiss you properly at the moment.”  
  
“Then let’s not.” He hears movement and she’s managed to open the partition all the way, so she can allow her face and her left arm to rest on the sill.  
  
“Shall we sit and enjoy the fresh air? Or talk? You don’t talk as much as I do, certainly.”  
  
He merely smiles in response. Small yet content.  
  
“If you like, you tell me something about yourself. Certainly there has to be a wonderful memory or two, love.”  
  
Love. To be called, to be seen as such by this kindly, curious woman. What a feeling.  
  
After a ponder that lasts until they are out of the grain fields, heading down the conglomerate rock path that led him to that fateful night ball, he gently squeezes her hand.  
  
“I might have a tale. A short one, but true nonetheless. It came from a better time, a more liberated time, and it begins with me as an adolescent, sneaking out with a fellow Guard…”  
  
As she slips back into the privacy of the carriage, he continues to revel in this story to his intently listening lover.  
  
Which, thank the Force, draws the attention of only the birds and lothcats slinking along the foliage of the road.  
  
And the sun rises on Lothal.  
  
Hopeful.  
  
  
  
**_The End_**


End file.
